


The Rusty Lake

by dragoninthesunlesssky



Category: Cube escape, Rusty Lake, Rusty Lake Hotel, Rusty Lake Roots, Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games), Rustylake, Video Games - Fandom, mr crow - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Animals, Crow - Freeform, Dale - Freeform, Escape, F/F, F/M, Fear, Horror, Hotels, M/M, Magic, Multi, Mystic, Original Character(s), Other, POV Original Character, Psychological Horror, Surreal, blackmagic, cube escape - Freeform, dalevandermeer, mrcrow, rusty - Freeform, rustylake - Freeform, rustylakehotel, rustylakeparadise, rustylakeroots, vanderboom, vandermeer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninthesunlesssky/pseuds/dragoninthesunlesssky
Summary: You've remembered something.Not a lot- the brain tends to easily forget those sorts of important jabber - but enough to hold a conversation.You've pulled up at the Rusty Lake Hotel.The name is familiar, but the emotions it evokes is far from comforting.In such a large building, there is so much to discover - but... do you want to discover it? Or, more accurately, do you want to rediscover it?





	1. Growing Pains

_You would've loved it here, y'know? I... *sighs* I don't know. I guess we're here now, aren't we. Here, sit down, have a drink. And laugh, for God's sake you're making me nervous with that stoic face of yours. We'll be here for a long time you know?_

_Why did you have to leave?_

_Why?_

_You were living such a good life._

_Stable family. Stable income. Stable children._

 

_Stable mind._

_But now…_

“Now I’m here.”

  


 

 

 

I forgot my name.

_“Names are meaningless noises anyway.”_

I remembered that.

A quote from a sibling perhaps? Or maybe an estranged partner.

Perhaps a long lost friend.

It was all pointless now, trying to remember.

What mattered more was the air which there was none of.

Not that I couldn’t breathe - conversely, I forgot I was breathing until I mentioned it - more like there wasn’t any atmosphere. As though a man had drained the sky of its matter.

I waved my hand, and there was little resistance.

Would that not mean I was in a vacuum? But I would've been squeezed to a pulp by now.

_He shrugged._

He?

_… I knew him._

“Sorry to bother.” His voice was smooth, like a cascading river. Yet it was piercing, like tough paper tearing, it grated - the feeling as unpleasant as chewing a mouthful of dry sand.

“We were having a conversation, weren’t we.”

“About what?”

“You.”

 

He cocked his head to the side.

A crow.

 

His head was coated in a layer of smooth feathers that one would think was gelled back were it not for the fact that his head was so remarkably unreflective. His head extended towards his beak that pointed downwards like the scythe of the grim reaper. Its tip was needle-like, piercing what little light that shone down from the large golden-red egg-yolk coloured sun. His beak was smooth, textured with pointed bumps along the edges of his beak that met his feathers, and just as black as his feathers.

Under his beak were tufts of small, delicate feathers, that gently swayed, much like the boat.

_Oh right... We were in a boat._

 

His eyes were almond-shaped, his eyeballs strikingly white against the blackness of his hide. His pupils were the same, unwavering black, like pools of crude oil - yet they glistened. The glisten of life.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I seem to have forgotten…”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” The crow smiled. “You’ve been far more pleasant than our previous visitors, anyways.”

_How could he have smiled?_

 

I was wearing a suit.

A 3-piece olive brown suit made of a soft, yet textured fabric.

I was never good with my fabrics. I doubt I could name any on the top of my head apart from… perhaps silk, linen, cotton… canvas?

“Anything can be worn.” Mr Crow cooed.

“Mr Crow.”

“Mm?”

He appeared unconcerned… perhaps tranquil. As tranquil as the lake. 

_How did I remember his name?_

I dusted off my charcoal coat that protected me from the cold atmosphere. I couldn’t help but notice my tie was similarly charcoal coloured.

“My favourite colour, really.”

I frowned.

“Are you a mind-reader?”

“Not entirely.”

 

_Are you sure?_

  


 

 

“I’d like to mention that I can only hear what is not directed at me. I also fail to hear questions, although rhetorical questions don’t seem to be bound by the same rules.”

“You don’t read?”

“No, I hear.”

“Is it not overwhelming? In a crowded room, I mean, considering your line of work.”

“My line of work?”

“Don’t you work as… as… as… ”

 

It was as though my subconscious knew, and had known for the longest of times. Yet… I couldn’t seem to remember. It was incredibly suffocating - knowing what to say, without knowing. The words just about formulating in your mind, only for them to be washed away as quickly as a wave splashing over words you’ve carved into the sand, leaving only a slight imprint of what you’re written, of what you might’ve said - all left for you to speculate admist the debility of uncertainty.

 

“A concierge?”

“That!”

“Well…” He chuckled. “I’ve learned to quieten what I do not wish to hear. Though I have to say, being able to listen to the 50th floor does provide for me a certain dexterity with petty talk.”

The boat creaked.

I didn’t realise we were moving.

The boat had moved so quietly, and so slowly, yet within a matter of minutes we were at… _the hotel_.

“You’re an indefinite guest here at the Rusty Lake Hotel. Or… at least to me you are.”

“Is that a good thing?”

The Crow rose from the edge of the wooden boat, tying its end to a sturdy wooden pole that was stuck deep into the reddish mud by the stunning hotel.

For a being with such so-called 'dexterity', he didn't seem to hear my question. 

His black, butler-esque suit tailed him like ribbons as he alighted from the boat, delicately. He reached and lifted my large leather suitcase out of the boat before stretching out his right hand which I gripped firmly onto, stumbling as I ungracefully tripped out of the wooden structure.

“There are about 7 other guests in the hotel tonight. Feel free to mingle, but I would advise against it unless you’re hotel staff.”

“I’m far from talkative."

“I know.”

 


	2. The People We Walk By Are Not Normal

They’d like for us to not know this, but it is true.

 

Is it true exclusively for the both of us though?

 

I doubt it.

 

You and I are far from special.

  


“Good morning.”

I cried.

Tears rippled down the edges of my face.

I felt them eat at me, like acid digging small holes into my face. I can only hope I made a delicious breakfast. 

 

The night before was far behind me. 

It left me shaking, although I can hardly remember why. 

 

Although, considering the crybaby I am, _anything_ could've shaken me. 

 

"Don't dismiss yourself like that."

He was in my room this time, watering two large plants, their pots made of marble chiseled into their own pieces of baroque artwork, placed beside the large windows, arched like the backs of stretching ballerinas.

 

My eyes drifted to the other side of the room, adjusting to the pale sunlight. Most things were decorated lavishly, carved in all sorts of extravagant, majestic ways, which I'm sure would've looked lovely, if only I could keep my head from vibrating like a demon bathing in a pot of holy water. The pine dresser and the small library had the illusion of being beautiful. Perhaps I'd while away a day by gazing at a few atlases and such. 

I could make out a long sofa made of burgundy velvet, its back curved like the side of a treble clef, something seemed to gleam and glisten, and I trusted it was more likely than not a relatively non-toxic item. Beside it, there was an emerald wingback arm chair with golden finishes on its pillows, which lay on a large furry rug, its colours of green, pink, and beige, now faded. 

A light smack of wind from ... _somewhere..._  hit me in the face.

The fire place?

How it managed to stay roaring throughout the night bewildered me. 

"I apologise if that was too intrusive. I thought it would've been comforting considering your late night adventures."

 

Mr Crow reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk and lace napkin. 

He was too reserved to pat my face dry, but kind enough to have laid the napkin delicately upon my quavering hands. 

 

He laid a tray down on the table, purposefully removing the old musty chair and shifting the large emerald armchair to the table. 

"Mr Owl has allowed you to be a guest here... an indefinite one." He commented as he laid out the cream white table cloth. "I hope you're as pleased as I am about the decision." 

Mr Crow lifted the tray and straightened out the cloth before laying it down once again. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small bundle of baby blue eyes. He then grabbed an empty, squarish vase, delicately patterned with ridges and indents, and placed it in the middle of the table. 

"Of course, the Chef is hardly content about this. Then again, he was hardly content about me." He retrieved a folded napkin and silverware from his jacket pocket and laid them out, wiping them with a separate cloth beforehand. 

"As I recall, you're much more of a tea person." 

 

I sniffled. 

 

"I'll treat that as a yes."

He set an old teapot, a white ceramic one decorated with blue patterns and red and green flowers as embellishments. in a small container decorated similarly were brown sugar cubes, and in another small pot from the same set was milk.

 

I dabbed the napkin on my eyes - thank God I wasn't snotty. 

"I wouldn't mind. It was always your napkin anyway." 

I half glared, half laughed at Mr Crow. 

"I didn't mean to interrupt your internal monologue." 

I peeled the soaking floral-patterned sheets off me and stumbled towards the table. I was wearing pyjamas - thick plaid ones, with wool lining the insides. They were red, much like my eyes, and smelt faintly of iron. 

"The Chef's compliments."

"He cooked breakfast for me?"

"I wasn't referring to breakfast."

 

Mr Crow lifted up the dome-shaped cover of the tray that was made of brass.

 

"We have a warm caramel and custard pudding as an appetizer. The main is smoked salmon, brioche, and eggs benedict with saffron and micro vegetables hand-picked from our vegetable garden. For dessert we have a warm egg tart. Do enjoy."

He stood by the side of the table. 

"Are you going to stand there and stare at me while I eat?" 

"Well I'd think that, after last night's scuffle with Room 3, you would want some... safety measures. Put in place."

"You should eat too then. Or at least... sit." 

The Crow decided to shut the room door and sit on the musty chair opposite me. 

 

"What happened yesterday? I can hardly remember what happened after I got off the boat." 

"I figured." Mr Crow commented, pouring the Earl Grey tea through a metal strainer as I cut into the egg, watching as the yolk spilled out, marbling with the beige sauce. 

"Perhaps we should relive it."

 

 

 

 

 

"I'm far from talkative."

"I know."

 

Mr Crow threw open the large white doors. 

Inside it was remarkably well-lit. Despite the harsh redness of the sun setting outside, the interior still retained its divine, white, halo-like glow. 

A man was lingering, flipping through a long newspaper. He was in a grey wool suit, donning a hat in a similar colour. His tie was red, and his shoes were a burnt sienna, polished to the point where it may as well have been a mirror. 

He sat next to a large plant, occasionally dropping his cigarette ash into the pot. 

Peering over his shoulder was another man, wearing a light pink office shirt with the first few buttons unbuttoned and light brown dress pants. He had the head of a polar bear, and teeth that could crack into my skull and end me in one swift bite. 

I glanced at the pair and was met with a low growl, the type of visceral noise one would make when there's phlegm clogging the back of one's throat. 

 

Taking Crow's advice I headed for the lift - to be greeted by a... bat-lemur...thing. Dressed in red, comically like those sidekick monkeys in kid's cartoons, his golden eyes with pupils thin like vertical pips contorted like a gymnast as he extended his arm, holding back the lift doors. 

But as fate would have it I was destined to not be alone. 

"Pleasure to meet you." A lady with a head of fire-like hair that cascaded in curls behind her back, donning a short and dreamily ethereal purplish-pink dress walked towards me, emerging from the enclosure of the lift. Her hair seemed soft, like a bed of dandelions or clouds. 

"Pleasure." I managed to stammer. 

"What brings you to this... secluded area." She asked as she procured a bright pink cocktail from the nearby bar. 

"I woke up on a boat headed here so I know just about as much as you do... you?"

She smiled, sadly. "A break." 

"Hm?"

"I got caught up in a _flamboyant_ life before now. My new uh, 'therapist'," she said with a sneer and air quotes, rolling her eyes slightly, "told me to take a break. So here I am. On a break." 

"Why do you go for therapy?"

"A couple of things that I'm not drunk enough to talk about." 

"So bad shit huh."

"Bad."

She took the cocktail down in one slurp. 

 

The grand piano started churning in the distance, its melancholic chords echoing throughout the reception of the hotel. It might've been classical... slightly jazzy, but far from happy. 

"You want more?" I asked, lifting up a bottle from the bar. It was a glass bottle with a long neck and slender body. Truth be told, I probably shouldn't have been digging behind the bar, but nobody was stopping us from having more, aside from shifty eyes from the Chef. 

The liquid appeared to be the same as the one in the triangular glasses - though I was no bartender. Not even in my previous lives I believe. 

"Could do." 

She slightly puckered her lips, a bright red that reeled me in. 

One way or another, the drinks started to number in the double digits, somehow the two men who were once there went up, either in disgust or tiredness, and one way or another, we were in the lift, hands thrown around each other, intertwined between clothing that was rubbing against our skin, an almost burning sensation that ran across our backs. 

The lights along the hotel corridor were dimmed, but luckily her room was near the elevator. 

She stuffed the key into the door knob, twisted and threw the key on the floor of her room, closing the door quickly behind her. 

And as quickly as I was pushed in, she slammed me against her cold wooden desk, pressing her lips against mine. 

She tasted of chocolate and peach. 

 

I must've tasted of seawater, considering the last thing I remembered was....

 

Drowning.

 

I drowned. 

 

I pulled back slightly, but her body simply pushed me further into the rough edges of the table. 

 

"I've. We've..."

"Fucked before, yeah."

"Yeah and you _drowned_ me- ow!" She bit the sides of my neck, sucking as her mouth crawled its way to my chest, her hands quickly peeling back my shirt. 

 

"That's what sirens do, love."

"Thought they only seduced."

"Well, some like to go a step further." 

Her hand snaked up my shirt, gingerly pulling back the rubber band I used to tie my hair. She slithered her hands behind my scalp, massaging it, as though to put me to sleep.

"Anyways, our end goal is still the same." 

 

Slime started sticking to my back, slime that was being excreted from her palms. Now her hands moved quickly, gliding around me. Her nails gripped onto my bare skin, compressing the muscle and flesh further into my body. As she did so, her arms were turning into a purplish-white mosaic, trailing from hints of yellow on her palm to her spine, lime green fins poking out from the ends of her elbows. A twirl of faint carmine extended from her lips and down her neck to her chest, ending at her hips. 

Her knees that pinned me against the table were slowly intertwining, cracking, snapping, and curling into a single, jelly-like, conic shape. 

Streaks of payne's grey started to ripple through her purplish-white scaley body, like a grey aura or taint afflicting a heavenly creature. 

 

She was an angel fish. 

 

The ends of her legs formed a rounded fin of lime green and lemon yellow which was slightly translucent at the ends. It glimmered in the presence of the moonlight.

Her glistening body pressed against me, pushing me further into the table that was caving in, like a pillow that was holed out. 

I felt my body sink, slowly... as though I had been tossed into quicksand. 

The more I pulled at the sides of the table, the faster I sank into the viciously cold abyss...

 

Rusty Lake. 

 

I felt seaweed curl around my ankles, my neck, my arms, some crawling into crevices in my mouth, attempting to peer into my ears... 

I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. Slimy tendrils wrapping and tightening themselves around my appendages. I yanked my leg against the seaweed but, like an anchor, my body jerked downwards. I felt a burn form around my leg, as though a rough rope were pulling me in place of the seaweed. 

My hair was in a mess, clouding my vision, wriggling in the water like kelp. Surprisingly, my eyes weren't burning as I opened them underwater. A welcomed gift that wasn't entirely useful. 

 

A pair of emeralds danced in the water, zig-zagging towards me like a laser, trailed by a jellyfish-like figure of red. 

 

She pressed her palms, cold like a metal structure left outside during winter, against my cheeks, as though she was sucking what little warmth I had left. 

 

She leaned into me, as though to give a farewell kiss as I felt myself sink deeper and deeper into the depths of the lake.

Her lips were a beacon of warmth that now tasted of salt and... salmon. 

"I only do this to people I love... remember that." 

She pulled my hair back which retaliated by consuming her hand, clogging my vision again. She merely twirled my hair around a tendril of seaweed. 

Her hands glided around my neck. 

The last few bubbles escaped from my quavering mouth. 

I watched as they danced mercilessly, taunting me as they effortlessly swam to the surface. 

 

But what will there be to remember once I have become one with the seabed? 

 

"Not much."

 

The familiar, grating voice echoed above, comically distorted but amongst the muck and the grime of the lake, any help was welcome. 

He grinned, slyly. 

 

He was on the boat again, this time standing and peering down... no....

 

Up.

 

He was peering up at me, as seaweed continued to wash over me like waves. 

From in between the strips of flailing foliage, I saw him open his beak, as though he were a kingfisher prepared to dive and nab his prey. 

 

"Oh, concierge, don't you think you're overstepping your boundaries as _voyeur_?"

"I'd like to believe that I still have the liberty of being an active participant every once in a while."

The siren - glowing in a twisted holy aura - released my face from her grasp, the blood from my body quickly rushing back, seeping into the veins that she had manage to cut off from her terrifying grip. She contorted her body and swam towards the surface, and in doing so, the seaweed finally draped itself as an opaque veil covering my face.

 

"Just because she was _your_ saviour in another life doesn't mean that you get to keep her all to yourself," the siren sneered, "who knows, she might end up being your downfall this time." 

 

I heard a sigh, and two sprawling, triangular figures sprouting from Mr Crow's pitch black shadow behind the translucent, turquoise-teal-olive seaweed barrier. 

"That may be true, but..." 

I could hear a whirring from beyond the seabed. A mechanical whirring, partnered with the howling of wind. It was faint, but definitely audible, even amongst the slapping of mucus-laden seaweed and shivering of shellfish and the bustle of schools of fish that were swimming by. Their voices were individually soft, but layered, it was like a tribal chant. "Another one? That's two in a row!" a child-like voiced squealed, disappearing as fast as it appeared. "Who's it this time..." a lower pitched voice grunted. "Poor thing..." "Do you think she'll make it this time?" "What's he doing?" "Serves them right." 

Their silver bodies glimmered in a kaleidoscope of colours, shimmying through the ray of sunshine beating down into the lake and away from my body. Their reflective scales blinded me even with the shade of the seabed ecosystem - I instinctively raised my hand to shade my eyes but was forcibly yanked downwards again. I squinted my eyes and craned my neck in the opposite direction, only to be pulled so far back that I could feel my elbows crash against coarse gravel and rock. I felt a sharp pain rapidly shoot up into my neck - my elbow must've struck a particularly sharp rock that was now lodging itself in between my muscle and my bone. Bits of soft sponge caressed my flesh, cooing me into slumber, whilst corals with spines as sharp as needles threatened to pierce into me and hook me permanently to the sandy floor. 

 

Admist the blinding madness, all I could hear was a sickening crunch, and a sudden rush of warmth that shrouded me. 

 

Opening my eyes, I could see nothing but a fleeting lightning bolt-like streak of bright red that slowly dissipated. 

 

Suddenly, I felt my body loosening. 

I was freed. 

 

Without thinking, I kicked off from the bottom of the sea, plunging my hands forward and vigorously kicking as I drew closer and closer to the surface, yearning for freedom from the prison of the ocean.

 

 

"Haaaaaaaaaa-haaaaaaa." I panted, spitting out balls of sand, and relishing in the fresh air of Rusty Lake. My breath was shaky, I could feel my ribs wanting to collapse inwards and eviscerate me, my bloodshot eyes excreting a sickening yellow pus-like substance, my elbows stinging, refusing to extend, and my head, coated in mermaid viscera, like a woolen hat, still infinitely warm, and as red as her lips. 

And as I looked up, all I could focus on was Crow's blank, stoic face, unchanging as he lifted me into the wooden boat and sailed off, lugging a purplish white agglomeration of meat and fat behind.

I could feel the full force of a migraine start to settle in, and a weight forcing my head down, as though a bowling ball had been stuffed into my head, rolling about and making me dizzy. 

"Sleep." 

He stated, in a soothing tone. 

"Sleep."

 

 

 


	3. The Scent of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, my mother was quite the essential oil expert. She had taken most of her knowledge from the Bible and word-of-mouth, meaning old wives' tales (coincidentally, the name of a particularly delightful pastry), and she was fluent in it. Thieves, for one, was named so for its antibacterial properties, grave robbers would slather the oil all over their bodies before they dug up tombs to raid. 
> 
> But death? Now that's a hard scent to pinpoint. I would guess that it'd smell sour, perhaps iron? If my mother were here, she'd probably be able to name all the oils that could recreate that ghastly odour. 
> 
> But there were other things that were hard to pinpoint the smell of, like...

"Seasalt." 

"Yes?"

"The salmon..."

I had finished it without even thinking. 

The long slab of bright pinkish-orange meat, patterned with streaks of white fat - snaking like a worm, curving all over the thin slices... All this consumed without thought. 

 

"I hope you didn't find any hairs in it." Mr Crow joked. 

"The Chef has hairs?" 

"I was referring to last night's supper." 

 

"Oh." I blushed, followed by a wave of guilt, slight tinges of disgust at how ravenously I devoured... her.

 

"It's not as though you didn't know." Mr Crow said, slyly, raising from his chair and lifting the empty plate from my tray. 

"I didn't mean to..." 

" _ **We** _ know." 

 

He lifted the tray out of the room. 

"Enjoy your dessert."

 

 And there I was...

alone. 

 

Last night's fling now doing flips in my stomach, my head spinning, the smell of salt and iron now permanently imprinted into my brain...

_Why did she want to kill me?_

_What did I ever do to her?_

 

 

Something began to stir in me, although it wasn't my long lost friend, emotion.

It was a cough, a cough that reverberated from the bottom of my throat to my mouth. A cough that gave my esophagus the air version of rope burns.

Sooner or later, I was hurled over the marble toilet with gold-painted embellishments. My diaphragm heaved, my ribs pressing into the corner of the toilet seat.

Chunks of breakfast now found their way to the sides of the toilet seat in a faint pinkish-yellow-green mosaic that slowly slid into the bowl and floated on top like an off-brand algae.

I gasped for breath in between gags, trying to set my mind off the sour and salty concoction that my tongue was now marinating in.

 

I pressed my back against the wall and took deep breaths. I felt my arm slacken, and without realising I had splatted onto the floor, sprawled, too tired to get up.

I started hacking again, but this time, I felt something clawing up my throat that wasn't vomit. It was hard, and large, almost stopping me from breathing.

 

"Ack." I gagged as I took one final hack, sending the object flying across the bathroom, and onto the tiled floor.

 

It was black.

Its surface was smooth, and had an eery iridescent glow.

I felt myself slowly getting pulled in.

 

"No-"

I gestured to nobody, waving the pearl off as I recalled what happened last night. I gingerly grabbed the sphere, setting it in my hand and carefully running it under tap water, trying not to drop it.

After flushing the toilet a number of times, vigorously mopping the floor, and keeping the pearl in a pouch for... a twisted sense of safekeeping, I was ready to change out and lay on the bed, pointing my head to the ceiling and dissociating to one of the records hidden in a cupboard in the room.

 

But alas, my plans were foiled.

 

"Hello! Hello! Hello!" A high-pitched voice squealed.

A neighbour.

Ugh.

 

"Hi!" I stammered, prying open the door and trying to convey the message that I didn't want to talk, but also trying to be as polite as possible.

"OooOOoOoh hello! Do you know who I am?"

 

A woman clad in an olive dress that mopped the floor with a matching hat that sported numerous cream feathers slid her hand stealthily between the door and the door frame and quickly threw the door open. She had a mink fur coat laid on her slender shoulders that hosted numerous freckles. Her smile was sweet, yet menacing, or perhaps I had grown an aversion to smiles of most kinds, either way, her air of bubbly playfulness had a sinister undertone that I couldn't shake off.

She had slathered a blue powder on her eyelids, it was done professionally, but it was... distinct. Her lashes were short but diligently curled upwards, and her slightly tanned skin, decorated with freckles and the occasional mole glistened under the sunlight that shot in from my pulled curtains.

 

"I heard quite a ruckus erupting from downstairs last night... and a very sudden lack of noise this morning." She pinched her lips together and held up a small silver mirror, dotting her lips with a red pigment. "So I came in to check on you."

"Thank you but I'm doing fine." I retorted, bundling up my coat and preparing to act as though I was rushing.

"Oo! Cake." She said, paying little attention and gobbling up my breakfast. I eyed her and was responded with "Oh, you don't need the calories anyway."

 

I rolled my eyes.

"I saw you and Juliana chatting it up for quite a long time yesterday... care to fill me in?"

"I don't even know you."

"Oh! Right." She let out a boisterous cackle. "I'm Bethany. A few doors down. Anyways, what happened to Juliana? I'm afraid I haven't seen her all day."

"Um. I have no clue." I nabbed my keys and stuffed them into my pocket, throwing on my coat. "I'll be leaving soon, do you mind...?"

 

Bethany stared cluelessly for a few moments before making an "O" shape with her mouth and widening her eyes, emerging from her seat at my table and skipping out the door. Her short, curly, brown hair followed.

"Ta ta!" She waved, her hands tucked warmly in her silk white gloves, and took a hurried turn around the corner, disappearing into the maze of the hotel.

I took a few steps outside my hotel room, pretending that I had somewhere to be - but who was I kidding. Bethany was long gone, there was no need to put on a farce. 

I returned to my door, fishing my key out of my pocket. 

 

For a hotel in the middle of nowhere, there sure was more people than I had expected.

 

"Shit." I wiggled my brass key about, trying to unlock the door, before realising I had taken my suitcase key instead. 

"Need help?" I turned to see a man, probably in his late 30s or early 40s, clad in a dirty orange suit - creased along the edges and crinkly from years of daily black coffee spillage - thrown on top of a beige-tan office shirt that was in desperate need of ironing. Ink marks on his shirt peeped out from behind his black tie. Strands of white hair flew from the edges of his short head of black hair,  you could tell that he had tried to style it, slightly, but to no avail - tufts of hair still retorted, emerging like weeds in a lawn. His breath reeked of bitter coffee, and if that didn't scream 'overworked, sleep-deprived, haunted-by-his-past' enough, his eyebags and slightly wrinkled forehead definitely did the trick. 

"I just uh, locked myself out." 

"Right." He gave a quick look at the lock and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of needles. Like a gruff mechanic, he mechanically set the needles in and wiggled them about, before turning them slightly. "There you go."

  
The door creaked as it opened. 

 

"Thanks." 

"Huh."

"Hm?"

"No, I'm just surprised." 

"About what?"

"How...blatant this is." The man gestured at the door.

"Oh God." 

It didn't hit me right away, but the smell did.  

 

Turns out, I may have gone to the wrong room. 

 

An old teacher of mine had a conversation with me once while we were sitting in his library, flipping through old anatomy books and going on a tangent about biology. It was a Summer, the heat was bordering on unbearable, and somehow our conversation had segued into bacterial decomposition. Perhaps it was the gnarly compost he was attempting, or maybe the rows of insects pierced through the heart and limbs that he had preserved and lined up in rows of 10 to 20 and mounted proudly on his wall, it could have even been his gripe about the taxidermist not 'getting the eyes right' - anyhow, I had asked the question "How would you know whether something is dead or not?" 

And in that moment, he looked me dead in the eyes, and said "Believe me, you will know. You might not see it, but your gut will twist, your skin go cold, your heart will beat slower, and in that moment, _you will know_."

 

And I have to say, whilst it may have taken a couple of years for his hypothesis to be proven, he was right. 

 

I did know. 

 

 


	4. Corrupted

"I’m trusting you opened the wrong door."

"Mm yeah, at least I hope so. Housekeeping won't be so pleased with me otherwise."

"That's your concern."

The detective-looking man was the first to walk in, putting on a pair of brown leather gloves and immediately going straight ahead into the scene.

 

Hung like a puppet with fish wire was an old man. He must've been in his late 60s or 70s, his head was full of greyish-white hair, balding at the scalp. His hands were sewed together, cupped, open and pointed to the ceiling. Their maroon, tender look indicated that the skin of his palms had been removed. The cuts were clean, surgical almost. The work of a taxidermist or a practicing surgeon.

 

Closer towards the ceiling light it was evident where his palm skin had gone, or _flown_ to.  

A peachy, brown-speckled form with wings that had red undersides, spread open like an eagle in flight, was hung from the ceiling like an ornament with fish wire. its beak was made of two nails, and its eyes were two grossly yellow teeth.

 

I turned my attention back to the man hung by his bare skin.

He was clothed in a white and puke green robe draped over his shoulders. His frail body was still swinging, perhaps under the weight of his body.

His feet were touching the table - he almost became the centrepiece, what with his feet tiptoeing at the exact middle of the table.

On either side of the long ends of the table was a set of cutlery - beautiful white plates carved from marble, quartz, or some other special material, adorned with gold embellishments, along with jade tea cups, cutlery with emeralds embedded on their fiddle-shaped handles.

On the plates were folded napkins in the shape of crowns.

Set on the table was a long line of fresh fruit, aged wine that rested in a golden vase, red, white, and pink roses, trays of hors d'oeuvres, two plates of uncooked sea bass, and cold bread.

 

"What was your name again?"

"I'm...um..."

"Okay 'Ayam' I'm Dale. And I need you to run down real quick and give the concierge a call."

"Actually, um, I'm Roberts."

"Oh, Ayam Roberts?"

"No! My name is Roberts. Just Roberts"

My name was not Roberts.

But considering that I forgot my name, I thought that at least I’d have it replaced with a better name than 'Ayam'.

"Alright, go talk to-"

"I heard."

 

Mr Crow walked in, his steps hasty. "What a pity." He eyed the man and the theatrical crime scene before him. "I'll alert the-"

"Don't."

 

 

The Crow eyed Dale.

"I should caution you not to let your _pride_ get in the way, Mr Vandermeer." Mr Crow sneered.

"I'm certain I can handle this on my own, thanks. Plus, who's gonna show here. We're in the middle of nowhere. It'll take at least a week before anybody gets here."

"All the more we should call them immediately."

"AND," Dale asserted, "they'll only mix up the evidence and find a scapegoat to get it over and done with quickly. Probably this young chap over here." Dale pointed at me.

“I **_assure_ ** you, I know what I’m doing.”

"Maybe." Dale scoffed. “But calling the police seems like a shitty idea.”

“I didn’t mean the police.” Mr Crow snarled.

Dale raised an eyebrow.

“Then who?”

 

 

"Have a pleasant stay." Mr Crow snorted, evading the question, as he shut the door behind him.

 

Dale breathed in and started to take notes on a small notepad, seemingly unfazed. "The man was old, I doubt he had a lot of fight left in him, must've made him an easy target. The fish is still relatively fresh so he must've caught it... very recently."

"Disturbing."

"What's disturbing is that the first thought that popped into your head was the housekeeping. Plus, it doesn't help that our beloved concierge is an arrogant squawking puppet for whatever dark secret is going on in this place."

Dale snapped back to the scene, jotting down observations in a messy cursive, impossible to decipher to even himself. 

His notebook was a small, dark brown, leather journal, bound together with a thin strip of leather to prevent the pages from flying out. The journal had round, black stains forming eclipse-like patterns on its cover - not a man who knew how to take care of his things. 

 

"What theories do ya got?"

"Drop the accent, and check on Mr Boar. We got trotter or hoof marks made out of mud and some blood on the carpet and black scuff marks on the edge of the front door. They seem recent, still have strands of hair tucked in between this small dent." 

"They could be from a horse?"

"I'll check on the horse."

"Do you know which room they're in?"

Dale glared at me. 

"Do you want me to ask the concierge if a horse checked in and where they're staying."

"Well," Dale glanced at his note pad, "one, that tone doesn't nearly indicate that you were asking a question. Two, I know where the horse is. Three, I _already_ know **all**  I need to know."

"You interrogate Mr Boar. I'll talk to the front desk." 

"Fine, we'll do it your way." Dale huffed, flustered as he stuffed his note pad in his pocket. 

"I know you're secretly thanking me inside." I winked, heading out the door. 

 

"Thanks." He muttered. 

 

 

I gave him the dignity of not replying.

 

 

 

The marble floors were as spotless as ever. Along the checkered array of pearly white marble with streaks of faint grey and peach and noir black quartz rested diagonally to each other (with small gold quartz diamonds placed on every corner of every tile), was a crimson red velvet carpet.

 

It led to a grand piano, elevated on a large, circular base made of a light green onyx marble slab that acted as a beacon, catching light that filtered in from the tall, ornamented windows and harnessing it as a power source for the slab of material to glow majestically, with its pinkish-orange copper like streaks dancing inside, like an aurora. Along the first tier of the base that was a few inches wider and shorter than the upper layer of marble were gold embellishments - a geometric pattern of square spirals that turned at a 90 degree angle, crawling into the middle of the spiral, and then similarly emerging in the same, geometric way. This pattern lined the bottom half of the tier, circling the entire base. 

Laying a top the large circular slab of about 4 metres in diameter was a towering grand piano. 

Like a piece of art, raised on a customised plinth, the sleek, black body, with a reflective sheen, of the piano rested on its 3 legs - polished brass, carved into dragons, their tails trailing from the bottom of each leg and enveloping the curved legs that tucked its belly outwards but curved back in. The dragon heads had their mouths wide open, fangs gnawing into the wooden body of the piano. 

The piano appeared unassuming waist-up, its black coat was bold, untarnished, not a smudge that could be seen against the warm light. 

Its hood was propped open with a sturdy, black pole, decorated with flourishes of gold that resembled leaves or scales. 

Inside the piano were its beautiful organs that sung pained songs of melancholy. Brass strings, polished to glimmer in the sun (although some, discolouring slightly), lined the innards of the piano. Lining the interior was a bright red velvet that cushioned the cast iron parts. 

 

 

Usually, the piano stood, imposing its weight on the green base, daring others with its devilish vigour. 

However, today, a woman, donning a stunning white gown with her hair in a bun, held together with a band of white poplar leaves, was sitting on the black chesterfield piano chair, its seat curved like a bracket, the metallic poles holding it up forming the outline of an hourglass. 

Her hands hovered above the set of piano keys, as though she were feeling or absorbing an aura from it.

 

 

 

"You play?" I asked. 

She jumped in the seat and quickly laughed it off. "A bit, yeah." 

"Would you care to play for me?"

"I don't need to prove my skills to you, sir." She huffed playfully, continuing to wave her hands above the keys, as though her hand were a metal detector. 

"I just meant, to enjoy." 

She smiled. From the edges of her wrist, I could see small protrusions - bumps that looked like very small pimples that had been burst, but had not disappeared. From her left arm, this trail of goosebumps spiraled around her elbow and led behind her sleeves. Despite her attempts to hide it, I could see tufts of white fur poking out - _feathers_. 

 

"You don't need to hide your skin, you realise that right? I mean, even the concierge is a crow." 

"Hush would you." She whisper-shouted, pushing me away slightly. She abashedly tucked the loose feathers under her lace sleeves that failed to roll down further, despite her best efforts. 

"Would you like my jacket?" 

"No, no. I don't want to be a burden. Nobody's as nosy as you anyway." She twitched slightly, gloved hands teetering above the C-sharp key before pulling away along with her. She was poised, most likely a more well-to-do patron of the hotel. As she left, her eyes glanced a final time at me, before disappearing into the lift, never to be seen again. 

 

 

 

"Roberts?" 

I jumped. 

"Yep?"

"You didn't even get to the front desk did you?" Dale shook his head, half in amusement, half in disappointment. "I'm a ladies' lady. What did you expect?"

Dale scoffed in disapproval, reaching for his notepad. "You can't keep getting distracted like this. We're on borrowed time." 

"Eh, enjoy the ride." 

"Right."

 

Dale motioned for me to follow him to the lounge. Burgundy Chesterfield sofas littered the area, along with velvet chairs with elegant crowns and gold lace decorating the edges. Amongst the seats were round marble tables, carrying circular ashtrays with gatsby-esque patterns. 

I rested myself next to a towering plant with bold green leaves that looked like flaccid rib cages emerging from the elegant pots of abyss-like deep brown soil. 

 

"Mr Boar was a no-go. He let me into his house whilst he was still on the toilet for God's sake. The smell was unbearable." 

"You mean unboar-"

"And he had an alibi. Mr Peacock and him were on a hiking trip outside of the hotel on the other side of the lake. 3 other customers saw them talking up a fuss about the trip, plus the log book shows that they returned their keys to the front desk for safe keeping on those days. I hate to say it, but it's a dead end."

Dale sighed and reclined into the chair, he unbuttoned his suit (which, under midday lighting, now looked like a dirty, perhaps olive yellow) and dug into the pockets, fishing out all kinds of memorabilia - old pens, keys, tissue paper, melted toffees... 

"Gingerbread?" He offered. "Hard pass." 

 

He rearranged the items in a grid on the table, silently aligning in perfect, parallel lines. 

 

 _Good Lord._ I muttered. 

 

Mr Crow eyed me from his rectangular desk - much liked he eyed the other guests to be fair, but this time, he seemed suspicious. Perhaps that was worry. 

 

"Hey."

"You want information, don't you."

I smiled. "Well, you're the omniscient listener." 

He cracked a grin. 

"Be careful about Detective Vandermeer. He has a tendency to... let arrogance get in the way."

"Funny, he said the same thing about you." 

"Yes, but his job is not to serve others and be kind. He is far less obliged to treat you well than, say, a concierge." Mr Crow commented, polishing the black telephone on the desk. 

 

"We don't have any hooved guests currently residing apart from Mr Boar, I'm afraid. Although..." Mr Crow turned around, reaching for the keys and wiping them one by one, "we found a pair of hooves in Ms Pheasant's room. They're framed proudly above her toilet seat. Apparently, from her divorced husband, make what you want about that." Mr Crow's head of feathers gently caressed my hand on accident. "Sorry!" Mr Crow, for the first time, seemingly terrified jumped back. 

"Oh it's nothing."

Mr Crow contorted his neck. "I don't usually... make such mistakes." He stuttered before composing himself. 

"It's alright. Mr Vanderboom, it's..."

He snapped his head at me. 

"How... you're...?"

Mr Crow started to reach his hand behind the desk, as though he were looking for something. His silhouette began to fuzz, like a shadow growing blurry. Its presence surrounded me like a fog, smelling thick of something acidic and smokey... as though I'd been trapped in a circle of people smoking fat cigars... yet it smelled dreamy... like lavender... perhaps even a tinge of rose... but a sting shot back through my nostrils, flaring them - a scent of viscera perhaps? Cinnamon?

The pupils of his eyes faded into egg whites, pearls, or.... teeth. They had spiny ridges, searing themselves into the skull of its organic habitat. 

Then it wasn't just a set of pearly eyes. 

It grew to four, six, eight... 

Along their outlines, flagellum-like hairs of black and white wisps encircled the creatures, like tentacles, reaching out to grab me. 

Yet they were perfectly still, intimidating me. 

 

Mr Crow daintily gripped onto a needle, as though he were holding onto the stem of a rose, containing a bright blue liquid, the colour of turquoise. 

"I'm very sorry..."

К̷͘͞͞р̨͏̶̛и͏̷̧с̸̢̕͏т̴̵̡͡и̧̡͟͢н̨҉͘  
---  
  
  
"How did you know m- OW! FU-"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ͘я͏͝͏͘ ̵͡͡н̨͢͜͠е͠͏ ̴̨̧х҉͏̛о҉҉̡͠т̷̢̛̕е̸̕л͟҉ ̵͟͞э̶͞т̛͏̕о͡͝͞г̴͘͜͟͡о̷̧̛͡ ̸̢д̸͘̕͞е҉̢̧̛͢л̷а͘͝т̸̢̛͞ь͞

̧̨͡н̕͢͠о̶̨̧͏̡ ̢͜͏͢͠у̷̛ ̶͢͡м̧͡е̴̷̛͟͡н̴͠я̸̡̡ ͏̸н̢͜͞е̷͟͢͞т̴̴̵̨͞ ̨͘̕͠в̵̧҉̷̛ы͟͟б̸̶̕о̵̶̢р̶̴а͠

 

 

 

 

 


	5. A̴̧̧͏̸l̵͝ư̴̶͘d̸̷o̡̡̕͏ų̷̶̡͡s̸͡, A̴̧̧͏̸l̵͝ư̴̶͘d̸̷o̡̡̕͏ų̷̶̡͡s̸͡, A̴̧̧͏̸l̵͝ư̴̶͘d̸̷o̡̡̕͏ų̷̶̡͡s̸͡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I͏̢'v͝͞e̶̷ ̶̸b̡͠e͞e̕͠ņ w͢a̢i̡͠ti̶̕̕n̷̢g̢.̴̨

**_Hello._ **

 

It was nothing more than a squeak but it was enough to stun me. 

 

**_It seems you're always getting yourself into trouble. What with the... attempted murders and everything._ **

 

_**I see you're trying to... helplessly flail your way out of this but, word of advice, that won't work.** _

 

I couldn't hear the voice, it felt like I was simply remembering a conversation. The silky voice was nothing more than a construct of my mind it seemed like. 

 

_**You flatter me. But I'm not you. I'm so much more than just you. I'm her, him, them... I'm...** _

 

_So you're pronouns?_

 

_**When did you start developing a sense of humour?** _

 

I knew I wasn't in my body. I couldn't feel my body - I literally could not sense that I was inhabiting a physical form. I couldn't see either - but it's not like everything was black, or white. It was just. Nothing. 

 

_**Welcome to my world. You'll grow acquainted soon.** _

 

_What am I here for?_

 

_**Nothing. Nothing in particular.** _

 

_Okay, then what is this place?_

 

_**It's a... in your terms I suppose, a waiting room. Here we just wait. Or, I guess not "here", we're nowhere. We, technically, don't exist. But we will... soon. Eventually.** _

 

If I had limbs this would be the moment where I burrow my face in them. 

_How long have you been here?_

 

**_Well, time isn't a dimension that exists in this... abyss. So I've technically been here for an eternity  and barely a second._ **

 

_But I... there has to be-_

 

_**Do you remember anything from your life before this?** _

 

_Yeah...?_

 

_**What was it?** _

 

_A...name._

 

**_Do tell._ **

_A̴̧̧͏̸l̵͝ư̴̶͘d̸̷o̡̡̕͏ų̷̶̡͡s̸͡. Wait... I.... that doesn't sound like a name. But I swear it was... I swear I could remember it._

 

**_Well, clearly not anymore._ **

 

_Well I still remember something else but it's... it's bright, glowing, piercing, but it's nothing I can't see it or touch it but I can feel it's..._

 

_**That's new. Do you know what to do?** _

 

_I don't know. Am I drowning? I think I'm drowning. Again. What is it with me and drowning oh G-_

 

 

 

 

A̴̧̧͏̸l̵͝ư̴̶͘d̸̷o̡̡̕͏ų̷̶̡͡s̸͡

 

 

 

The word sounded familiar. Like a childhood lullaby that you remembered during fleeting moments whilst doing mundane everyday chores.

Thin, soft, angel hairs and thicker tendrils of unidentifiable matter whipped my face, like a blast of cold air, but more distributed. Then, they started to be more targeted in their actions. They began to seep into my epidermis through the pores of my skin, tunneling and burrowing, trying to find... something.

Like a network of a strings, they pulled at my eyelids, forcing them open, as though I was their puppet.

"Many apologies. I'm aware that this isn't exactly the best of circumstances for you."

"No, it's alright." I heard myself say. The black wisps were beginning to control my mouth.

"I just want to know, did you kill her?" A voice, scratchy, with a heavy accent. He was a hardened man, face wrinkled from stress, hands veiny, even scrawny. He tapped his black fountain pen against his notepad with yellowed paper and faint blue lines.

"No. Definitely not." I said, shakily.

"Well, I wouldn't put it past you." He stated, matter-of-factly. He turned towards a framed mirror, adjusting his olive green tie. "You have an impressive record. Some powerful figures you dealt with. Surely a helpless, blind, woman in a cabin in the middle of an isolated forest would be a piece of cake for you?"

 

Memories of everybody I had... taken care of, before now started to flood back.

"It would've been. Very. Easy." I sighed, reaching for a bottle filled with an amber liquid and pouring myself a drink. "But it's because she'd be easy is exactly why it wasn't me."

"No, but a blind man in an abandoned house was **_so_** difficult." The man shot back.

I brushed my hair back, tucking the loose hairs behind my ears. "I was just starting out. You don't go for the rich or important as your first." The drink burnt my insides with a cold but fiery sizzle.

"But you did."

The man sat in the chair opposite me, crossing his legs. He glanced at his notepad on which he had scribbled words in a hardly legible cursive, and doodled an animal of some sort in the corner. 

"I. Didn't. Kill. Vanderboom."

"Well, not all of them. There was a miscarriage. Or did you cause that one too?"

"Surely this doesn't pertain to your investigation, detective?"

He scoffed.

"One day, you're going to slip up, and I'll finally get to put you behind bars where you belong."

"Sounds like a challenge," I chuckled, taking another sip from my patterned glass cup, "are you challenging me?"

The detective merely put on his charcoal coat.

"Goodbye, M҉̸̴͜͝a̶̡͟r̢͟͞ģ̸ǫ̸̨҉."

 

 

 

_**Welcome... back?** _

 

_I. Shit. I almost got it._

 

_**What ?** _

 

_My name. It was M̨̛ą̷̷͞͠r̷͘͢ģ̸̵̧͞o͝͡. Ma̷͘rg̡o̢͞͝. Ma͞r̨g͞o͟_

 

**_You do realise that you're repeating the same word over and over again?_ **

 

The voice sounded... felt different. It felt a bit more... gruff. How did I know that?

 

_**You have a better grasp of your past life than I thought you would. That's impressive.** _

 

_Did you have an old life?_

 

**_None that I remember. I've just been... waiting. I see everything. I've seen the iterations of you, and Aldous, and Laura, and Dale, Juliana, ugh, so many names._ **

 

_Aldous?_

 

**_Mmm. That was the name you were struggling to remember. Familiar?_ **

 

_No. Not anymore. It's... left._

 

**_Hm. It was bound to happen._ **

 

_When do you think I'll go back? I don't want to be here anymore. It reeks of... nothing._

 

**_You've been here for 2 seconds. I think you've got a whole lot of waiting ahead._ **

 

_How?_

 

**_Time doesn't exist here but it does in, well, surprise surprise! Existence. I estimate that it's been 2 seconds in existence._ **

 

_Oh God, it feels like it's been..._

 

**_Forever. Right?_ **

 

_Right._

 

**_Well, in nonexistence, it just... doesn't exist so it's neither forever or never. Does that makes sense? If you don't get it we still have a lot of time to explain this._ **

 

 

_I get it. Sort of. I want to sleep. Can I sleep? I'm tired._

 

**_I doubt so._ **

 

_How do you know?_

 

**_I mean, you can but you won't feel different. No time has passed so... nothing happens. You just.... don't remember it. Like just now you "slept" for a week, but you don't remember that, because it didn't happen._ **

 

_So none of this is happening._

 

_**It's nothing. Do you get that? Nothing you do is anything. None of this exists. I bet you barely remember what I said last week.**  
_

 

_Last... week?_

 

**_Exactly._ **

 

_Then... what? Am I just stuck here?_

 

 

**_Probably. You'll get called back one day and then you'll exist. But, once you start existing again, none of this will be a part of you. Because you'll be existing again._ **

 

_Why can't I remember anything about this place but you can?_

 

**_Because I've been here for a while. Each... dimension has it's own set of rules, and I've acquainted myself with some of them. Believe me, at the beginning I was like you._ **

 

_I need to leave._

 

**_You will. You have, and you haven't. This doesn't exist so you can't leave it per say._ **

_So I should just... give up?_

 

**_Yeah. Actually. And then one day, you'll be back in existence. You'll forget about this void. You'll forget about the fear and the pain that you're feeling right now. And it'll be like you never left._ **

 

_Will you remember me?_

 

_**What else would I do?**  
_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
    
    
      วันอื่นสำหรับคุณไม่ใช่ใช่ไหม คุณจำไม่ได้ว่าคุณทำอะไรได้บ้าง? แม้กระทั่งชีวิตที่จบลงด้วยความเห็นแก่ตัว? บางทีคุณอาจคิดว่ามันเป็นความเมตตา สงสาร นี่คือสิ่งที่คุณโยนคนเข้า นี่คือสิ่งที่คุณได้ทำกับพวกเขาและสิ่งที่กำลังทำอยู่กับคุณ เพลิดเพลินไปกับ Margo ชดเชย บางทีวันหนึ่งคุณจะมีชีวิตอยู่อีก
    


	6. Tardigrade's Affliction

Tardigrade was a short man.

 

His face was burrowed in folds of olive brown skin, each line and pore highlighted with mauve patches and lemon yellow lines. He had stumps for arms, short and cute like a panda, ending with little ball-like palms that could cling onto any surface, from glass to the waxy coatings of Heliconia leaves.

Each paw had a set of small and prickly hooks tough as steel, that you wouldn't immediately feel, but if he ever gave you a firm and deliberate handshake, moments later you'd find your hand coated in a bright pink goo that, when washed off, will reveal your hand coated in cherry coloured dots that will slowly corrode into blood clots and yellowish-green mucus, eating away at your hand until it was nothing more than a collection of bones.

It was for this reason that Tardigrade wore a pair of gloves.

 

He had a pot belly, soft and round, extremely huggable (but he preferred to hide his belly in an office shirt, rather self conscious about his appearance).

 

Tardigrade wasn't particularly aware of his surroundings most of the time. In fact, in almost every situation he’d burrow his head in the comic section of magazines and newspapers, or a sudoku book he’d finish ages ago, once even a book on how to construct dollhouses. He’d do this because he was terrified of the onlooker’s gaze. He imagined in his head what Benjamin, the florist residing in one of the collection of shophouses he lived nearby, thought of his grey hat that he wore ritually, what the woman behind a thick pair of leopard sunglasses thought of his bulging belly as she seemingly snickered when she walked by, perhaps the group of smokers clad in disheveled and unkempt shirts and berets were boisterously jeering at him, or the group of aunties playing mahjong, sweating in the sweltering heat, or the couples holding hands, warmly looking into each other’s eyes that turned into a cold stare when their gaze met his.

 

His hands would get clammy, his feet noticeably swimming in a pool of his sweat. His face would turn red, with shame and anger and hate and fear, his lips would curl, like a grape drying into a raisin, his eyes would  almost water, and the only way he knew how to combat this was to glare at the ground, burrow his face nose deep in a book, and sprint away, like he were about to miss his train.

 

It was also for this reason why, when he found himself getting cuffed by a certain Dale Vandermeer whilst he was making his way from the lobby to the dining hall, he assumed his hand got stuck behind a chair or a pillar, and he hastened his steps, pretending that he had intended to bump into the object, attempting to gracefully recover, his head still buried in his novel about the common fishes of maldives and what made them so fascinating.

 

He started to panic when he realised that his other hand was seemingly bound. And that his book had slammed onto the ground, drawing so much unneeded attention to him.

 

He felt light against his skin for the first time in a long while. He saw the layout of the hotel lobby (surprisingly big - he had memorised the shortest route from the necessary facilities to the lift and went at specific times of the day that had the least traffic so he’d needn’t have unwanted conversations with other patrons), and the guests (all 2 of them, but it felt like a hundred) staring at him, their eyes throwing daggers that only made his heart beat as fast as the chef whisked his egg whites to make the pavlova he was craving that day.

 

“Mr Tardigrade, you are under arrest for the murder of Nadia Polinsky.”

 

“Oh! Sorry…” Tardigrade immediately said, before Dale had finished. Apologising was instinctive. In any situation where he may have had the slightest role in causing any inconvenience, he would jump the gun and apologise to clear any misunderstanding he had (in his head) caused.

 

The truth was, just as he in fact did not topple the empty beer mug off the table a few metres behind him, he did not kill Polinsky. In fact, he had never heard of Polinsky. She sounded nice enough, and he genuinely was sorry if she died, and, considering the prospects of chaos theory, him being physically present, or even breathing in the hotel, probably resulted in her death. However, he suggested to his hyperactive and nervous mind that surely the detective wasn’t arresting him for this reason. If not, he’d have to arrest himself for his role, however little, in Nadida’s death. Because, he was sure, Naditha’s death was not solely caused by his existence. Of course, there was the possibility that he was in that universe where his actions (however seemingly inconsequential) were the decider in whether she died or not, but he did wonder how Dale got around to knowing about it.

 

Yet all he said in the moment was, “Oh! Sorry.” In a hushed tone.

 

Dale, unamused, dragged the man by his shoulder and walked him to an empty storage room, barren and dusty from a lack of use, and settled him down, alone, the flickering filament coming from the above light solely keeping him company.  

 

_Tardigrade felt at home._

 

“Well…” Dale approached the ever stoic Mr Crow. “It’s settled then. I’ve finally proven to you I’m ‘worthy’ of dignity.”

Mr Crow smiled. It wasn’t immediately obvious to the average person, but after living in the hotel for a good week or so, Dale had grown to pinpoint the exact feeling of Mr Crow smiling. He knew it as a churn in his stomach that soon became a pit that slowly engulfed him. If he didn’t focus in on it, he’d re-emerge from the trench of his mind. But if he didn’t, he’d find himself staring into space for hours on end, fully enclosed in a tunnel of kaleidoscopic colours that had all sorts of feelings. Blue was the smoothest. That was all he could remember. A silk. He had considered blue being a silk. His eyes could still feel its wavy contours and blemishless surface...

“Detective. My fondness is hard to win.”

 

Dale chuckled. His deep voice, raspy like a serial smoker, created a gasping noise. A mirage of sorts. Though he sounded like he was choking, he was merely… laughing.

“I don’t care about your fondness.” He spat in between deep inhales and child like wheezing.

 

“Aw, did you break him?”

“Roberts?”

Dale snapped his head to face behind him, like a puppy that’s caught a whiff of its owner.

“Roberts!”

 

 

He was in a jungle.

 

The kind Dale had only read in books as a kid. Trees with vines that looped to cling onto the next tree, seamlessly, making it easy for an adventurous traveller swing mightily from one cliff to another. His feet would land on a bed of moss, and without slipping or popping a knee, he’d dash off after the striped orange and black beauty that’d sprint through the shrubbery and thorns and rivers, putting up an intense chase for our protagonist. But, in a miraculous turn of fate, the humongous beast would get tired, stop for a drink of water when it senses it’s lost its pursuer, and lounge in the dying red sunlight.

As the last rays pierce through the netting in his dark green hat, the hero brandishes his weapon, a large metal thing, black and brown, his arms are steady, hands maybe quivering from the adrenaline of the chase, his chest pounding wild as a gorilla beats on its own chest, his finger hovers over the trigger. His eyes may be murky with sweat, but his aim is unaffected.

 

In the distance, a silhouette of a flock of birds erupts from the crowns of tall trees and soars into the rotting sky.

 

He triumphantly lays a boot on its head.

The beast is still warm, panting, dying…

 

But the man bathes in the success.

And the last rays of the sun no longer peek at him through the foliage.

 

He is alone.

 

Dale found himself as this man.

He let the dull light of the moon seep in lazily.

 

He think he stood there for days.

Weeks, even.

 

The smell of iron stopped bothering him, the sourness turned stale, mosquito bites were now just decorative pieces, the pus leaking from his arms were just that. Leaks. His boots, tattered, toes not quite fitting into the pointed tip, sank deeper into _its_ skull, day by day, as the sun rose in lilac tones and set in crimson hues. Its orange skin now tainted with a black tar that ate away at the fur.

 

That was what orange felt like didn’t it?

His eyes felt as though they were soaked in a warm liquid and placed into a bag of smooth fur. They moved around in the bags, like snails.

Orange.

 

 

 

“How did you solve it, Detective?”

Dale gripped onto his glass, nails gnawing on the cup.

 

“Detective.”

 

Dale looked up.

“Mm. It’s…” Dale smoothened the sleeves of his shirt, laying a finger over his hairy skin. Nothing that should raise alarms.

He looked at his feet.

A bar stool and a red carpet atop a white and black tiled floor.

 

“It’s a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde.” Dale stated. “Tardigrade as himself could never kill anybody but… he snaps. Ms Pheasant’s framed hooves were found in her room, and there were specks of blood on them. I think Tardigrade’s Hyde had found a way into the room, took the hooves, and returned them after he killed Mr Polinsky. Ms Pheasant says she needs to take sleeping pills to sleep, and that she can sleep through ‘any war’ with them. So, I don’t think taking the hooves would’ve been a big challenge if he did it at night. Also, Tardigrade caught a big fish yesterday. A bass. Chef saw him do it, offered to buy it, but Tardigrade just… ‘apologised and sped off’.” Dale read off of his notepad.

 

“So. It lines up then? Tardigrade is the killer.”

“Yes. But… motive.” Dale leaned against the counter, looking into the brown liquid.

“You don’t have enough evidence?”

“I do, I do.” Dale reassured Mr Crow. “But it pains me. Not knowing. _Why_ is such a big question, and not getting the answer makes my whole body sore. I feel like I’m being… wringed by my neck.”

 

Mr Crow smiled.

 

Silk. Fur.

 

“I’m merely the concierge, Mr Vandermeer. I wouldn’t know.”

Dale exhaled. He forgot to get a pack of cigarettes. He couldn’t remember from where. He imagined the burning feeling, and the rush of relaxation.

It wasn’t the same.

“Although I will say,” Mr Crow continued, “if Tardigrade’s another side is such a ‘Hyde’, what makes you think his actions are motivated? Wouldn’t he just be killing for killing’s sake?”

Dale shook his head. “It’s not like that. Nobody makes wings of an old man’s back without any intent. He… he had to be doing it for something. Or somebody.”

 

“Mm. Well, his curtains were drawn, yes?”

“Nadia’s? Yes.”

“And he would’ve been killed at night. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then why would the curtains be drawn? And not even drawn, they were framing the scene, weren’t they?”

“For who?”

“Well, he _was_ facing the window if I'm not wrong.”

“Mm.” Dale mulled over the idea in his head. It made sense. Sort of.

 

“Which direction is Polinsky’s room facing?”

“Same as the front door.”

Dale nodded, slowly.

 

 

“I’m gonna need a boat.”


	7. Orange and Blue

One of Dale’s fondest memories was of him and his father, sitting in a boat that drifted in the pitch black, thick, gooey, and infested waters in the drain near their cottage. They didn’t fish as much as they dug. His father rolled up his sleeves and would pull apart at the doughy concoction.

 

“Never be afraid to get your hands dirty, boy.” He would say, between puffs of his Especial Cigars, thicker than Dale’s wrists. He would grip onto them with his teeth, one hand would be on his radio, cranking out a jazz tune that fizzled every so often. It would be something about a broken heart, drinks, and cigars. A singing saw would play a melody that captivated Dale as a boy. The notes it could hit and the vibrato it seemed to manage.

 

He was always astonished.

Most people hadn’t known about this, or that Dale had a taking to muddy waters.

He wasn’t the sort to mention these type of things.

  
  
  


Dale had nestled himself in the wooden boat, sailing in the direction of clear, turquoise and emerald pools near the shore.

He was determined to find out who Polinsky was strung up for.

The night was freezing, wind biting at his cheeks, ripping through his greying hair. He merely tightened the red quilt he had wrapped around him and cupped his hands over the warm cup of coffee the chef was kind enough to offer him. The flask breathed out a steady cloud of steam that gave Dale limited comfort.

 

The lamp that he had fixed onto the boat was sturdy, but started to show signs that it was swaying.

He had considered just dousing the boat in gasoline and lighting it on fire.

Lucky for Dale, he favoured better judgement and let the image of a burning boat scaling the icy seas fall into the recesses of his mind to appear in another funky dream.

 

Silk. Fur.

 

He hung onto the words, not even knowing the significance or _why_ he had an obsession with materials.

  
  


“HELLO?”

 

Dale’s attention was stirred. Though the voice seemed to fade into the howling of the wind, Dale managed to pick it out.

 

“YES?”

 

Dale hollered back. And for a second, the bellow seemed to move against the wind, the sound, produced from pushing air through whatever mess of organs in his neck, rumbling forwards like a canon ball that had just been shot into the air.

 

No response.

 

He took up the paddles and began to cut through the rocky waters. A man on the mission. The boat lunged forward and backward, fighting against the desires of the lake to hold him back.

 

“ARE YOU THE BOAT?”

 

The voice reached Dale again. This time, it was clearer - a voice not high, not low. A voice that belonged to a nighttime radio host. One that wasn’t immediately identifiable, but certainly not unrecognisable.

Dale wanted to say: Why yes, I am the boat. A talking boat, at your service. But he saved his breath.

 

The fog of the night had enveloped the entirety of the lake. Yet, as he found himself reaching the shore, he realised that the fog had thinned into nothing but an awkward and uncomfortable humidity, making his clothes sticky, like a paste of some sort. Or rotten seafood.

 

Standing in front of Dale was a person. He was tall, but not as tall as Dale. His hair was tied into a bun, with loose strands entangled with the weighty brass glasses that rested treacherously on the edge of his nose. Her lips were tattered, as though they were once beautifully primed canvases that had now been ripped through, crimson, maroon, and brown mixing and fighting for place upon the limited surface. The figure had a striped dark purple shirt barely clinging onto his shoulders - the first few buttons had somehow been ripped off. There was a semblance of formality in her clothing - dark suit pants with ashy patches around the knees, and a leather belt that seemed to be the one thing holding the figure together.

 

“Dale?”

“Roberts?”

She cracked a grin.

“How long’s it been?”

 

Dale tried to ignore the gash that extended from her cheek to her ear lobe. Roberts seemed to be fine with his wound, and Dale didn’t want to go into anything that would open another can of worms in his already overflowing tank of many legged and zero legged tubular specimens.

 

“You, um.” Dale coughed. “You’ve been missing for a few days. We thought… the killer had… well, killed you.”

“I thought I killed me.” Roberts laughed blissfully, running a bruised hand through his black hair. “To be honest, I don’t quite remember… _anything_.”

 

Dale nodded slowly.

“Well, important thing is you’re okay. Well…” Dale eyed the criss cross red streaks that lined Robert’s arms, crawling out from his rolled up sleeves, “alive.”

“Alive’s good?” Roberts asked, seemingly surprised.

 

Dale raised an eyebrow.

  
“Roberts let’s get you… somewhere safer.” Dale wrapped his quilt around Roberts. “Did you have a place here?”

Roberts nodded, tired.

“A resting place.”

Roberts nodded again.

“There’s a bed… a couch…” Roberts paused to think. “And a bed.”

“You do know you mentioned that already.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I meant to say couch.”

 

“You… said that too.”

 

Roberts nodded sadly.

 

Dale decided to secure the boat to the shore, making sure he remembered to take his camping materials with him. He initially intended to set up a small tent for a few days as he investigated the patch of land Nadia’s window was facing.

 

“I don’t suppose you came to rescue me.” Roberts muttered bitterly as he made his way to the cabin he had been residing in for the past week.

“We thought you were killed. There was blood in your room. Splatters all over the place.”

Roberts cackled.

 

Dale, discomforted, laid an awkward but comforting hand on Roberts.

“I wish I were.” Dale thought he heard him cry. “I wish I were.”

 

And Roberts threw her head back, gasping for air before she threw it forward again, grabbing onto Dale’s shoulder and laughing as though she were trying to laugh out her diaphragm.

The cabin was buried behind a fort of trees. They swayed seductively, tempting. Not quite sure for who. From behind a velvet and gold curtain that hadn’t been closed fully, the fireplace roared, it’s light wafting through the window and wriggling slowly towards the two.

 

Roberts, still giggling like a child, threw open the door.

 

“I haven’t been able to sleehehehheeee-” she wheezed, hiccuping between words, as though she had  heard the world’s funniest joke, “slee-hooooooo…. Sleeppppp.” She exhaled, throwing herself onto the couch.

 

Dale grew silent and reconsidered setting up a tent on the other side of the island. Perhaps barricaded.  

He looked at the giddy man. He tossed and turned, tickling himself, laughing and clawing at the blue sofa that was now a ragdoll for Roberts’ violence.

 

Roberts closed his eyes.

  
  
  
  
  


“SHUT UP. GODDAMNIT.” She threw a fist into the wooden coffee table, the wood splintering and shaking.

“Jesus!” Dale instinctively jumped.

Roberts glanced at Dale, apologetically.

“Sorry. Sorry. Not you. I meant Silk, here.”

 

Dale paused. He dropped his bag and approached Roberts with caution.

 

“Silk?”

“Mm. Sir Silk.” He patted the couch’s armrest.

“I-is there a uh… Fur?”

“ _Fur?_ ” Roberts asked. “Oh! Yes. Yes. But you have to do a bunch of paperwork to meet him, you see. Mr Fur only makes meetings by appointment.”

Dale pulled his lips to their sides, annoyed. Even the most unhinged are beholden to the rules of bureaucracy.

 

“How about we rest.” Dale offered. The proposal sounded evident to Roberts, almost obvious. Too obvious.

“I can’t…” she said, sadly, “each time I want to… a pain eats me. And I’m engulfed. I don’t want to sleep Dill.”

“Dale.”

“Dil-dil, I can’t do it. I just can’t.” He weeped, sinking back into the couch.

 

Dale yawned and nodded sleepily. He took off his coat and sat in one of the chairs opposite Roberts.

 

“Who did this to you?”

Red-eyed and confused, Roberts tossed her head to the left and right, like the brass circles in a cartoon grandfather clock.

“I did.” He sputtered, drying his glossy eyes with the cotton that poured out of the sofa. He scanned the vicinity, a wild and terror-stricken look plastered onto him. He gently crawled off the sofa and approached Dale who, albeit frightened, pretended that all this was normal. “I… I _ate_ him.”

 

Dale raised an eyebrow.

 

“Sir Silk. I felt him in my blood. And now… he’s trying to get me back. I know it.”

Dale pretended to understand fully.

“Maybe Sir Silk didn’t mind being eaten?”

“But he’s crying. Don’t you hear him crying?”

“Perhaps it’s a laugh.”

“Sir Silk’s laugh isn’t nearly as joyful.”

 

Dale inhaled deeply, pressing his fingers against his forehead.

 

“Yes, yes.” Dale leaned back. “That’s all very reasonable, and I assume Sir Silk is a reasonable chap?”

“Reasonable! Exactly!”

“Mm. Perhaps use… reason? Explain your delicate position and apologise.”

Roberts eyes widened.

 

Before Dale could say another word, Robert had scurried to the sofa, crying in all sorts of gibberish Dale failed to understand.

 

Roberts grinned again.

 

“Um.” He stopped. “Why?”

She looked down at the scars that riddled her arms. “Odd.”

 

“Roberts?”

“Oh! Dale. Hadn’t seen you there.”

 

“Yeah.” Dale stated hesitantly.

 

“You’re giving me a weary stare. And you know how I get with your weary stares.”

Dale dusted himself off and made his way to a guest room that seemed welcoming enough.

“Did I? Do something?”

 

Dale stopped and turned to face Roberts, his face riddled with confusion.

 

“What?”

“I… I don’t know. I feel different. I know I shouldn’t be here… but this feels so… natural? Like I’ve been here for a bit. Not long enough to really… know much… but… enough to know where the kettle is, the wood, and the radio. I…” Roberts looked around. “Dale?”

 

Dale sighed.

 

“Sleep, Roberts. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  
  



	8. Eyes In The Cape

“I did that?”

I pressed my hand against the mounds of cloud-like entrails pouring from the velvet carcass.  

 

“You called him Sir Silk.”

“Figures.”

 

Dale poured himself a mug of coffee from his flask. He was mildly annoyed by how cold it was, but he didn’t trust the spider-infested boiler and pans enough to use them.

“How did you get here?”

 

I shrugged. “I… honestly can’t remember.”

Dale sat opposite me, using a crumpled handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

“I thought you got killed.”

 

I smiled. Death would be preferable.

“Evidently, that didn’t quite happen.”

Dale crossed his legs, flipping open his weathered notebook and flicking to one of the pages with POLINSKY scrawled on the top in shoddy handwriting and pooling ink.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

I looked down to my arms, tracing the scabs forming trails that looked like the cross-hatching illustrators used to insinuate shadows.

“I remember a piano. Just… the piano.” I looked up to Dale who was scribbling something with a broken pencil he fished out of his pocket.

“Hm... “ He set the notebook onto his lap and took another swig of coffee. “You remember the victim’s name?”

 

I shook my head.

“Well, he’s Nadia Polinsky. You remember the scene?”

_How could I not._

“Body strung to the ceiling and all that? Hard to forget.”

Dale nodded in acknowledgement before ripping out a page from his notebook.

 

Dashes and dots and arrows littered the page, painting a mosaic of indescribable features. Words looked more like decoration and less purposeful. They danced along the lines, gossiping with each other like mothers at a playground. They twirled gracefully, stomped angrily, popped up like whack-a-moles…

“I… what?”

Dale looked down at the page.

“Yes?”

 

“What in the **_hell_** did you write?”

 

Dale snatched back the page.

“What you forgot.”  
I made a face. Not quite sure what face it was exactly, but I contracted enough muscles to convey a high degree of confusion.

“Well it’s too bad you have the handwriting of a goose.”

 

Dale whistled. “Mr Goose won’t be too happy about that.”

“There is no Mr Goose, Dale.”

“How would you know.” Dale quipped, reading over his own handwriting. “Essentially, the victim is called Nadia Polinsky, the murderer would have had to scale the sides of the building to get Ms Pheasant’s dead ex-husband’s hooves, been in the hotel for the few days, and have caught a sea bass within a roughly 2-day period before the murder. The only person who lines up with that description is Mr Tardigrade who is being kept in a secure location.”

 

I sank into the disemboweled sofa, slowly processing the information bit by bit.

“What kind of a name is Polinsky?”

“Ms Pheasant keeps her dead ex’s hooves over her toilet. I think there are more outlandish things to consider than a name, Roberts.”

I sucked my lips in. “Who’s Tardigrade?”

 

Dale shrugged. “A socially anxious patron of the hotel. He apologised when I cuffed him.”

“Doesn’t sound too… killer-y.” I mentioned.   
“I had my doubts too but the chef saw Tardigrade catch a sea bass recently, Ms Pheasant noticed pink prints along the sides of her window, and Tardigrade does… secrete pink goo,” Dale shivered, disgusted by the thought, “anyways, I reckon there’s a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on with him.”

 

A thought crept into my mind. “Call it anxiety or paranoia, but don’t you think you should be guarding Tardigrade if his ‘ _other half’_ is a murderer?”

“Yes, yes. Which is why he’s being guarded by a certain arrogant bird.”

I snorted.

“Arrogant bird.” What a nickname. _Arrogant bird._

 

“So you thought I died. Why row out all the way here?”

Dale snapped his fingers.

“The arrogant bird planted a thought in my mind I just couldn’t shake off. So I came here to resolve it.”

I smiled. “So that’s what we’re calling him now? Arrogant bird?”

Dale rolled his eyes, moving his train of thought along. “He mentioned that Polinsky may have been _presented_ in such a manner for something, or somebody, in this general area. So that’s why I’m here.”

 

Almost symmetrical rectangles of orange light lazily drifted through the blinds, doing a waltz with the specks of dust in the musky air, and falling onto the marked planks, viscerally abused with streaks of indentations and stabs.

 

I felt the heat clasp my hand gently, like the ghost of a loved one.

 

I walked up to the window.

“Do you think it was for… us?”

 

Dale perked his head up.

“What do you mean?”

I pulled up the blinds, flooding the room with warmth.

“It’s facing the house… look.”

 

From the window, you could already see the decay feasting upon the banquet. Flies darted about the room, creating a fuzzy shadow that moved like jelly. You could almost hear the buzzing. It would ring in odd intervals, sometimes lasting for no more than a second, before bombarding you with a frightening buzz for a bit longer, and then disappearing once again.

 

“Roberts! Take this pen and paper and jot down everything I say okay?”

“What?”

“ _Just listen to me!”_

 

I gripped onto the ink-filled metal cylinder.

“Dash… dot dot… pause. Dash… dash… dash… pause...”

Soon, the paper was filled with dots and dashes. It became clear what it was, but to me it just looked like computer gibberish.

A part of me felt like I should know how to decipher the code.

It should’ve come naturally.

But it just fell short.

 

“Done. It’s repeating now… God it’s annoying.” Dale twisted his head back. “Roberts?”  
“Yes?”

“Are those… _yours_?”

“What?”

 

I looked back.

“ **_What_ **?”

 

“Nevermind.”

Dale waved something off, like he was swatting flies.

“What’s it say…” Dale picked up the notepad.

 

“D, O, N, T, R, E, T, U, R, N.”

Dale squinted. “Don’t return?”

“Very welcoming.”

 

“F, O, L, I, E, A, D, E, U, X.”

“Ooh.” I whispered.

“Hm?”

“Folie a deux. A shared delusion.”   


I got up from my cross-legged position on the ground, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

“Is Tardigrade saying this?”

 

Dale looked back.

“Tardigrade? No. He’s locked up.”

“Okay but who else w-”  


The door rattled.

Spooked, Dale tightened the olive tie around his collar in an attempt to calm himself.

He looked through the peephole.

 

“Ugh.” Dale scoffed, rolling his eyes.

  
  


“ _Did I not warn you about rowing out in the middle of the night?_ ”

A familiar voice cut through the dusty atmosphere.

“Al…. A….” There was a name. Something…

“Yes! His highness graces us with his presence.” Dale spat, unamused.

“No. No. No. You have a name.”

  
It was frustrating.

I knew something.

But I didn’t.

I was wiped clean.

 

“I’m Mr Crow.” The figure said, glint in his eye.

“Right…”

“I came to check on you.”

Dale narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t have much faith in me I see.”

Mr Crow smiled. “From experience, I assumed you now know that the waters aren’t exactly peaceful at night.”

Dale scoffed. “It was easy enough for me at least.”

Mr Crow glossed over Dale’s dissonance.

“I’m here to bring you back. Tardigrade has been handed to appropriate _officials_. Now that the threat has been removed, I… well... Had hoped you’d start on the search for our missing guest. But I see you’ve already found them.”

 

Mr Crow pointed his scythe of a beak right at me.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

I shook my head.

“No recollection…”

“Really?”

“None.”  
“Not even-”   
Dale motioned for Mr Crow to stop.

 

“Leave me to the questions, _concierge_.”

“Apologies.”

Mr Crow smiled.

An eerily poignant smile.

If one could call it that.

 

It was a weird smile.

A physically impossible smile.

Hypnotic in a way that couldn’t be described.

It sounded like a siren. A siren that was wailing from miles away, that you just catch amidst the typical sounds of daily drudgery.

 

It felt like you were trapped in a room with that wail growing from a whisper to a screech. You’d be in the middle of this square room, sitting on a chair. The chair was nondescript - few details, no smell, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Like a school chair. You seem to fit perfectly into the chair, you’re familiar with its nondescriptness.  

In front of you was a wall. A blank wall, grey and smooth.

A metre your right is a pine door.

You know it’s unlocked. Somehow, you know it’s unlocked.

And it isn’t by assumption but by the same familiarity.

 

As time passes, you see against the wall blue and red, blue and red.

You can make out your grey silhouette on the wall that fuzzes and sways.

 

You hear a car door open and shut.

A blast of cold wind hits the back of your neck.

You continue facing the wall.

 

Something gnaws at you.

 _Run_.

**_Run._ **

You try to move your legs but they feel like they’ve been replaced with plastic.

You try to move your arms but they still rest politely on your lap.

Even your vision is stuck in place.

 

You feel your body being wrapped, something black and crinkly folds up around you.

Like a cocoon.

 

A pitch black plastic cocoon.

 

“Come on Roberts.” The sudden sensation of human warmth felt like a sudden jolt of electricity was shot through my body. He yanked my wrist, dragging me to the back door. Dale spoke in a hushed tone, deathly quiet. “What’s going on?”

 

“Somebody’s on the cape.” He whispered.

“The… cape?”

“The cape of the island.” Dale rushed through the hallway, maneuvering past the wooden furniture that stuck out and contorted in sharp angles like thorns on a vine. I felt them jab at my sides, jeering as I stumbled to keep up with Dale.

“We need to leave through the back.”

I ducked under a branch wall sconce that extended to the other side of the hall, like a fractal growing in reach.

 

“Why? People live on this island, right?”

Dale opened the back door that was blocked with an iron grill painted black. Red rust ate away at the gate, sinking its teeth into the skeletal grid.

“Yes, but there’s a trail of pink footsteps on the rocks so I wouldn’t like to take chances.”

I widened my eyes.

“What chances? You’re a detective! Catch him.”

 

Dale fell silent, eyeing his surroundings.

 

_“Your chances.”_

  
  
  
  
  



	9. My chances?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words didn't mean to cut, I don't think. Nobody knows the impact of their words until they see another's reaction. Words feel different to different people - and you may think it's obvious but it really isn't. 
> 
> It's easy to forget about.
> 
> Isn't it?

“Yes. _Your chances_.” Dale asserted, dragging me across the reddish dirt, leaving a trail of dust clouds churning in the damp air. He didn’t seem to care too much about the noise we were making as we stomped on fallen branches that crackled like roasted pig skin under our soles.

 

Not the stealthiest man on earth.

 

Dale poked his head through a sheet of vines, bringing it back and dipping underneath before pulling me through it.

 

“You seem surprised.” Dale paused, leaning against a bulbous rock. Weird pod-like holes had been etched into its body - they were ovular, and more long than they were wide. Along the outline of the holes were blister-like goosebumps that poked out from the rock’s dark grey and wine red flesh - like a spineless hedgehog, or a head with every strand of hair pulled out individually. A hooker’s green moss filled the gaps between the small bumps, as though they were mapping out a path through a maze of walls.

An unidentifiable brown fur had grown on the head of the rock, crowning the lone emperor in the small clearing, hidden by turquoise vines that licked the floor and leaves that grew in spirals and pairs.

 

The morning light struck Dale’s face, his grey hairs more visible, wrinkles and scars no longer buried in a book or case file.

 

Case file?

Oh right, he was a detective.

 

It felt as though I had known Dale for a long time - though time, frankly, didn’t exist (oddly enough that fact was very familiar and foreign to me) - but I had no idea from where.

Supposedly, we had met in another timeline. I had met one such person who believed in such things before. Well, more than ‘one such person’.

 

I had a curiosity.

 

She told me that I was a white tiger, and that I had eaten her ages ago.

 

_Fur white as snow, stripes black as coal, fangs sharpened to-_

 

“Roberts?”

“Yes?”

 

I perked up my head, squinting as the light doused everything in my line of vision.

“I worry about your safety.”

“Why?”

“Well, do you remember when you got kidnapped and taken to a cabin in the woods and we presumed that you were killed?”

“Uh, no. But I know that it happened.”

“Ideally, I would like for you to not die. I would like it if nobody died, really.”

I paused.

“That’s… a nice thought.”

“Mm.”

 

Dale looked to his side, carefully crafting a sentence.

“See, I think that you can… drift. Your mind, that is. And that’s, well, a bit worrisome.”

“I see.”

“And last night, you weren’t fine.”

“I… know.”

“You know?”

“Well, I don’t _know_ know.”

  
  
  


“But you seemed taken aback before.”

“I know.” I sighed. “My head’s not been in the right space recently. I was so sure of myself for so long, but now I’m just… not sure. And I don’t like not being sure. My own life is a blur. All I can recall are the unimportant parts of my life in infuriating detail. I don’t even know my own name.”

Dale leaned back.

“That’s… unpleasant.”

“Yeah.” I exclaimed in a half scoff. “I know I was, well, _am_ more than capable, but being here… It’s thrown me. And I guess when you pointed that out I was… forced to deal with that reality that I really don’t know anything.”

 

“Maybe it’s a blessing.”

“How?”

Dale slid down the bed of moss and planted his feet in the soil, leaving his footprints in the mud.

“You get to reform yourself.” Dale stated, dusting off his suit. “You’re not incapable. Just dealing with a traumatic experience. Somebody kidnapped you, scratched you up, and abandoned you on this island. That can’t be an easy thing to get over.”

He peered through a gap in the vine shield, waving towards a familiar beaked bird in all black preparing the boat.

 

“Dale?”

He turned his head back.

“Yes?”

“ _ **Maybe we should stay here instead.**_ ”


	10. 5:30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time.

He dances in a jagged circle.

His footsteps form the pattern of a gear.

 

The dust churns and swirls, the spotlight's rays dispersing, giving shadow, and in doing so, dimension to the specks that clouded the dancer's face.

  


"And what do you think of it?" The voice cooed.

"It's mad. Retched. Dog-like." I furled my nose. "Need I continue?"

 

"But do you know what it represents?"

  


"Madness."

 

The Crow chuckled.

 

"It means freedom."

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Your point being?”

 

He got up from his velvet seat behind me, hand lightly resting on the brass railings designed to mimic the voluptuous folds of intestines.

He stepped down the carpeted theatre steps, lined with gold, head bopping slowly as he drew closer to my row.

 

“You do not enjoy freedom.”

 

His gaze locked with mine, a gut-wrenching instinct yanked me by the throat and compelled me to relax all muscles.

 

Yet I remained, sitting upright, sunk into my chair, both feet against the floor.

“That is why you stay,” he continued, “why you play the game.”

 

His beak slowly swung towards me, the tip barely touching my hair.  

 

“We’ve freed you before. We’ve watched you gallivant aimlessly on your own. Do you know what you did with freedom?”

 

I could barely mouth a _“what”_.

 

“You took it and you crushed it and you rejected it.”

 

Drool began seeping out of my mouth, dollops of it falling onto my pants, forming black and slimy patches that seemed to sizzle once it touched my skin.

 

“And each time you leave you come back.” Mr Crow affectionately closed my mouth, handkerchief in his gloved hand. “So don’t bother leaving, M͏a̷͏r̴̢҉g̷̕͝͡o̢͝.”

 

He rested the cloth on my knees.

 

“Because you’ll come back. Even though you know the horrors of this purgatory. Even though you know this puzzle is unsolvable. Even though we’ve given you the choice to leave.”

 

_What choice?_

 

“ **_This_ ** choice.” Mr Crow asserted, his body gently decaying into a familiar array of villi.

 

“I can only keep you safe here. And I cannot make you leave. So stay, and be toyed with.”

 

A blue orb distorted and slowly grew from a blur into a blue vial.  

 

“Or go and be free.”


End file.
